


Eurovision Night

by sigridir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Fluff and Humor, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigridir/pseuds/sigridir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In honour of the Eurovision competition, here's something I wrote last year to keep you entertained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting the Scene

It's been five months since the 'Moriarty Incident' as everyone has now come to refer to it, and despite frantic searching and investigation nothing has happened. Zilch, zero, nada.

John Watson has attended more clandestine briefings and read more dry intelligence reports since the New Year than he ever did when he actually was a soldier. It's all rather surreal with not a peep from Moriarty since The Broadcast. He'd have suspected that the whole thing was a set-up by Mycroft in a last-minute fit of filial devotion, especially after the truth about Sherlock's suicide-mission-cum-assignment came out, if he hadn't seen the unmistakable  relief in the elder Holmes' eyes for a few seconds before he called the plane back.

The time has been stressful on all of them. If John had thought his feelings about Mary and Sherlock and the whole diabolical mess had been conflicted before Christmas, it was as nothing to what happened afterwards. He hadn't known whether to be angrier at Mary for putting them in this situation in the first place or at Sherlock for his overly melodramatic 'solution'. His respect for Mycroft Holmes had even gone up when he realised that the man had neither arranged for the woman who effectively murdered his little brother twice to 'disappear', nor strangled said little brother for utter stupidity and putting him in an impossible situation.

As time has gone on and line after line of inquiry has drawn a blank even the unflappable Holmes senior's nerves have started to fray. John still pities the poor agent who last week had the report he'd just given thrown back at him accompanied by a blistering lecture on the importance of quality of content over quantity. When even the unflappable not-Anthea decided that discretion is the better part of valour and avoids her boss, ordinary mortals stand no chance. Sherlock had, much to people's surprise, saved the day by entering his brother's lair. No-one else is quite sure what happened inside Mycroft's office, except that it was loud enough to seep through the soundproofing and that the cleaners were called in afterwards, but the atmosphere between the siblings has been more stable since.

It's therefore with some bemusement that John finds himself climbing the stairs of 221B on a wet Saturday evening with a baby carrier in one hand and a carrier bag of supplies in the other. Mary is struggling behind him with the nappy bag and a fold-up cot. He'd been informed, that he and Mary would be attending a gathering tonight 'because we need to relax while we do some important research'.

He enters his old flat and is startled to see that the room has changed. It's clean for a start. John has to admit that Sherlock has made a real effort recently. 221B has been mostly baby-proofed, with dangerous objects and Sherlock's precious violin moved out of the reach of small fingers, even though it will be a while until baby Angela is mobile enough to need it. However, tonight the room has been rearranged, with all the furniture facing the fireplace and even the kitchen looks hygenic enough to actually cook in.

Mrs Hudson calls cheerily from said kitchen 'John! So glad you could make it. Oh! You brought Mary and Angie too!'.

Mary smiles tightly and hovers in the doorway, still unsure whether she's truly welcome or not. Mrs Hudson swoops in like a grey-haired typhoon and relieves Mary of her baggage, her coat and her fears while clucking sympathetically.

Mary keeps charge of Angela's carrier, cooing over her and making the kind of silly voices that adults often slip into around small children. Greg Lestrade claps John on the shoulder and swaps his bag for a freshly opened can of Guinness and pushes him in the general direction of the sofa. Meanwhile, Billy Wiggins is fiddling with some kind of telescopic contraption in a corner.

In the months since the exile-that-never-was and the birth of Angela, John and Mary have settled their relationship into something more solid.  John’s still not sure that he really trusts Mary yet, or indeed if he ever will trust her fully but he has come to believe that she will do anything for her... their baby. Little Angela Watson made an unexpected appearance less than a week after Sherlock's parole and John and Mary spent weeks at Great Ormond Street as their daughter fought to survive. Shared anguish had brought them back together, first in fear, then hope, then relief.

John's relationship with the consulting detective is equally an emotional minefield. The truth about Sherlock's exile was revealed by a snide remark from the head of MI6 during a meeting as the man attempted (naturally unsuccessfully) to intimidate Mycroft. John saw the truth in Sherlock's eyes and he still doesn't know whether to hug him, thank him on his knees for the sacrifice or kill him for yet another lie. The puzzle of Mary's continued mixture of relief and fear suddenly becomes understandable. Magnussen may be gone, but she's in the bad books of a man who is potentially even more dangerous. John steadfastly refuses to think too deeply of all the implications of what Sherlock Holmes did for him or why Mary is still alive and free, in the face of the desperate need that his infant daughter has for her parents.

Sherlock’s arrival is heralded by the front door banging open and bouncing off the wall.

‘Careful!’ Mrs Hudson calls. ‘I just had that re-plastered. I can’t be doing repairs all the time, you know.’.

As usual, no apology is forthcoming from the consulting detective. However, he does manage to look at least a little contrite before greeting John and Mary. He sets down the box of glassware he’s just retrieved from Mrs Hudson’s flat before moving over to fiddle with a laptop sat on a kitchen chair in the middle of the room.

John’s bemusement ranks up another notch or two. ‘Is this a party?’

Sherlock looks at him oddly. ‘Of course it is. What did you think we’d be doing tonight?’

John looks at Mary, who’s settled herself and Angie in Sherlock’s chair, using the squishy sides to support her daughter. She shrugs at him as Angie tugs on her hair. ‘I don’t know, I guessed the usual review of what’s gone on this week, planning… just with a drink or two to help it pass faster.’

‘No, no. Tonight is a very important night in international politics.’ Sherlock adds.

John looks even more confused as Greg Lestrade guffaws into his beer. ‘Well, that’s one way to describe it I suppose,’ the policeman adds.

Sherlock ignores him, before darting over to help Billy in his battle with what turns out to be ‘..a projector screen?’ John queries. A shy looking young woman  shoves a plate of gently steaming sausage rolls under John's nose, so he snags a couple before flopping down onto the sofa to watch the unexpected cabaret act of Billy and Sherlock mucking about with technology.

It's now seven fifty-five, the projector is apparently now working and Mary has put Angie down to sleep in the travel cot in Sherlock's bedroom.  John is making small talk with the sausage roll girl, who's been introduced as Billy's girlfriend Patsy. A phone full of baby photos is a remarkable icebreaker; she chatters brightly about her nieces while making admiring noises at every new snap. Mary is clutching a cup of tea like a shield in front of her (she really is remarkably British in some ways, despite John's firm belief she's anything but) while smiling anxiously at Greg bouncing a gurgling Angie on his knees. Sherlock is hovering by the window, constantly checking his phone.

Just then the door is opened and a smiling Molly Hooper walks in. She's wearing a cheerful fifties-style dress covered in multicoloured tulips and carrying a stack of pizzas. Somewhat more surprising is Mycroft Holmes, immediately behind her and holding the door open over her shoulder, resplendent in a three-piece-suit despite it being a Saturday night.

Sherlock glares at the new arrivals. 'You're late,' he grumbles. Molly manages to look embarrassed despite being mostly hidden by pizza boxes. Mycroft simply smirks, and retorts with 'I am never late, nor am I early. I arrive precisely when I mean to.’ This statement causes Molly to giggle at him, while Sherlock simply glowers.

Mycroft divests himself of coat and ubiquitous umbrella as Molly thanks him profusely for the lift, which he brushes off with 'It was no trouble at all, dear lady'. He perches primly on the far end of the sofa and removes from his well-worn and apparently TARDIS-like briefcase a laptop, no less than three mobile phones, a large gold-wrapped box and a small wooden crate. Sherlock's eyes light up and he virtually snatches the wooden box from his brother's hands, opening it to extract a bottle of amber liquid.

'Oh, you are trying to impress tonight, brother dear,' Sherlock breathes, reverently unscrewing the cap of the whisky bottle and savouring a deep sniff. 'Thirty-year-old Macallan is not something to be treated lightly.’

'Be a good lad and fetch us some glasses then, so that we can appreciate it properly .' Mycroft interjects, looking up from where he's apparently setting up a mobile office. 'It seemed appropriate that we celebrate tradition properly this year.’ A ghost of a smile is shared between the brothers as the rest of the room stares at them.

Sherlock needs no second prompting and hurtles off to collect a pair of crystal tumblers, while Molly spreads pizza boxes strategically about the room and people begin to help themselves. There's a chorus of disapproval as Sherlock steps onto the coffee table in between open pizza boxes and flops dramatically onto the middle of the sofa between John and his brother. He puts the glasses in front of Mycroft who rolls his eyes and pours a finger of single malt into each, while Sherlock claims what Molly laughingly called a Zen pizza ('make me one with everything'), puts his feet up on the table and balances the box on his lap.

A nod to Billy, and the lights are darkened and the projector starts up and the room fills with sound. There's some kind of parade of grinning people being introduced by a woman in evening wear with a continental accent. Mycroft and Sherlock clink their glasses together as the elder intones 'May the best man win' before knocking back his glass in one go. 'I'll even give you a head start this year, as a show of good faith.’ Mycroft tops up his glass again then snatches a slice of pizza with startling speed, even as Sherlock ineffectively tries to bat his hand away. 'Too slow, little brother, too slow' Mycroft drawls before taking a hearty bite.


	2. First Half

John is beginning to feel like he's entered the Twilight Zone as the epitome of the British Government munches pizza while watching bad TV. 'We're going to watch Eurovision?' he eventually manages to say.

Mycroft somehow manages to appear prim even while licking tomato sauce off his fingers. 'Actually, we're going to observe the results of one of the largest scale surveys of public opinion in the world. One can learn a lot from observing the performances chosen and the way the voting goes. It's a remarkably accurate predictor for the success of certain political parties and an insight into national thought patterns'.

Sherlock snorts around his own pizza 'More like he has a chance to prove his superiority again. Mycroft always claims that he can predict the way the scoring will go before the voting begins. I intend to prove him wrong.'

Mycroft's shark-like grin gives away just how much truth is in that statement. 'That and I have a bet with my Austrian counterpart and the Russian Ambassador.' he adds.

The TV is starting up with the actual music now. There's some kind of odd introductory piece where a woman's making a flag out of what appear to be post it notes. The assembled group watches this in bemusement. 'Ah, Ukraine... enjoy it while it lasts,' nods Mycroft, even as Graham Norton starts up with his commentary. He toasts his brother 'Bud'mo!' and takes a healthy swig of his whisky.

Sherlock grumbles ‘Show off’, but lifts his own glass to his lips anyway. When the stage lights come up they reveal a man running on a hamster wheel while a woman warbles about ticking clocks. Lestrade laughs uproariously making comments about classic Eurovision. John manages to crack a smile and finally begins to relax.

When the Belarussian entry starts up and the Holmeses turn to each other and say in unison 'Zdorov'ye' and both take another drink. Greg has already cottoned on and calls 'Cheers!' and joins in the toast. Mycroft is typing something on his laptop, only to be accused of cheating by his brother who makes a grab for it.

'Bugger!' swears Mycroft as it's clear that he can only save either his drink or his laptop. It's the alcohol that wins and the laptop ends up on the floor. He downs the rest of the glass and retrieves the computer. 'I'm working, Sherlock!' he complains. He squints at the screen before noting 'Anthea says hello and to enjoy the show.’

Mary finally reveals that she's really not British or even European by loudly wondering why the hell a man is singing a song about cheesecake. Mrs Hudson starts to explain about the history of Eurovision, before being interrupted by a chorus of shushing. She huffs at them all and buries her nose in her large gin and tonic. Molly pats her sympathetically and offers her a fresh slice of pizza before passing the box around the room.

Even Mycroft doesn't claim to speak Azerbaijani off the cuff, so the next act is greeted in silence. The song ultimately fails to generate any enthusiasm. 'Nil points' says Sherlock, and there's a general murmur of agreement over the sounds of contented munching. Only the commentary raises the odd snort of laughter.

Patsy scurries round the room offering a tray of crudites. Billy takes a handful, smiling at his girlfriend and John takes some in the spirit of healthy eating but the rest of the gang are less impressed and stick with the more calorific options.

Iceland is up next. The toast of 'Skál!' is picked up by the entire gang, and Mycroft refills his glass. Their act is greeted with a laugh when Lestrade says 'I didn't know that the teletubbies had emigrated'. It's true that the colour choices of the group are a tad unfortunate, but the song itself is peppy Eurovision at its finest and meets with general good humour.

Norway and Romania follow. The Norwegian entry gets a little mockery for '...the silent storm inside me...' sounding like the singer has digestive difficulties. Romania's duet is generally regarded as only so-so, although the circular piano gets marks for ingenuity once someone worked out what it actually was.

Mycroft is busily writing something on his laptop again, after consulting texts on two of his phones. He's still absently eating pizza, and between them he and Sherlock have polished off the entire wheel. Every time a new act comes on, he looks up long enough to toast them in their own language before returning to his task. Sherlock keeps up with the Scandinavian and Slavic languages, but draws a blank at Armenian and scowls when his brother doesn't.

Mrs Hudson produces warm garlic bread from the kitchen, which vanishes a lot faster than the carrot sticks and celery did.

Armenia and Montenegro get a resounding group thumbs-down as non-entities, although Aram MP3 gets given bonus points for the daftest name so far. Nobody's quite sure why there's a woman ice-skating across the floor for Montenegro, but the overall effect is pretty. John opens his second can of Guinness, courtesy of Billy who seems to have appointed himself bartender for the evening and is topping up people's drinks. The atmosphere is finally beginning to clear as everyone unwinds. Sherlock complains loudly about Graham Norton's commentary, but John hits him with a cushion as the rest of the group shouts him down.

Poland's next. Unlike most of the other entries who've opted for the international language of English (Montenegro being the exception) - they are Slavic and proud! Even Mycroft pauses to stare at buxom Polish girls gyrating in revealing pseudo-traditional dress and doing remarkably provocative chores. He's the first to start chuckling at the frankly ridiculous lyrics, but the girls conveniently switch to English in the latter half of the song. Lestrade wipes tears of laughter from his eyes ‘Now THAT is a proper Eurovison song.’ John agrees wholeheartedly with him.

Mary pipes up from where she's curled into Sherlock's chair, cup of tea abandoned for a glass of red wine. ‘You're all crazy, you realise that?’. Molly giggles at her from her seat on the floor leaning on the chair.

Greek wannabe rappers bouncing on the stage, quite literally when a trampoline makes an appearance, get a round of laughs. The elder Holmes finally caves in to Sherlock's unsubtle hints and elbowing and abandons any pretence at doing something useful along with the laptop and reclines into his corner of the sofa cradling his whisky.

John's been watching the interplay between the brothers and reckons that although Sherlock's supposedly been matching him drink for drink, Mycroft's put away half as much alcohol again as Sherlock. Yet he still manages to appear normal. When Austria's entry is announced it reminds John of the comment made earlier. 'I thought you had a bet over this, Mycroft? Isn't having a drinking competition kind of counterproductive?'

Jacket now discarded, waistcoat unbuttoned, and collar and tie loosened, Mycroft waves his (almost empty again) glass magisterially. ‘If I didn't, it wouldn't be much of a challenge would it, hmm?' reminding everyone of just how much above the rest of humanity he regards himself.

'Not Sachertorte in the Diplomatic Bag again?' Sherlock scoffs 'The things you'll do for chocolate cake...’

Mycroft looks utterly unrepentant and gestures with his glass again 'Genuine Sachertorte is as far beyond mere chocolate cake as this is from dishwater. Not that a philistine like you would appreciate the difference.' he responds tartly.

At this Mary and Molly look at each other and burst into a fit of giggles, probably fuelled by the bottle of wine that they're sharing. Molly's next comment is definitely rooted in liquid courage 'Will you save me a slice of cake when you win?' she asks sweetly, almost fluttering her eyelashes.

Mycroft's entire demeanour changes as he leans forward gazing at her intently.  'Well, that altogether depends on just how nicely you ask me, Doctor Hooper.' he purrs, voice pitched an octave lower. Molly's mouth drops open and she turns an impressive shade of beetroot red as she blushes to the roots of her hair. Mycroft returns to his former slouch, positively radiating smug self-confidence, his eyes dragging over her suggestively. Molly can't seem to decide whether to look at her feet, or at him and eventually settles for hiding her flaming face in the skits tucked around her knees.

Sherlock seizes John's cushion and hits his brother in the chest. 'Mikey,' he whines, 'Stop embarrassing Molly.'

'Yeah, because that's YOUR job mate!' pipes up Lestrade.

Thankfully any retort Sherlock makes and Molly's mortification are lost in a round of laughter and then people are distracted by Austria's cross-dressing entrant. 'Such a pretty dress!' gushes Mrs Hudson 'but it really doesn't go with that beard.'

Lestrade is amused 'Looks like Russell Brand took up karaoke'. John can't help laughing at the image.

Mycroft has switched off his  smooth-talking lounge-lizard persona  so fast it's hard to believe it existed and is back to normal once more and simply notes 'She'll do better than you think.'. The conversation then degenerates into a rambling debate on whether Conchita Wurst should be referred to as she or he and the classification of transgendered versus transvestite ultimately ranging into wider questions of sexual politics. In true semi-inebriated style, nothing is actually answered and lots of confusion ensues. Billy actually manages to get Sherlock to argue with himself by acting utterly gormless with prompting from Mycroft behind his brother’s back which provides plenty of entertainment to everyone else.

Sherlock manages such an expressive kicked puppy impression once he realises that he's contradicting his original position that even Mrs Hudson is reduced to laughing helplessly. John high-fives Billy and congratulates him warmly. As a result of this, Germany's yodelling lady punk with accordion escapes serious criticism.


	3. Interlude with chocolates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half time and John's surreal evening continues

While the voting system is explained by the presenters, most people refresh glasses or make a mad dash for the facilities. Both Holmeses are busy fiddling with their phones, near-identical expressions of intense concentration on their faces. Greg returns with another beer for John, although he waves it aside having consumed enough for now. The policeman smiles wryly and nods at the oblivious twosome. 'For once, you can actually see the family resemblance.’

John laughs along; feeling more relaxed than he has in well, months. For all the inherent ridiculousness, it's actually shaping up to be a pleasant evening. He stands to chat at Lestrade's level and stretch his legs a bit. Lestrade adds 'Now we also know where Sherlock learned how to turn the charm on'. Chuckling, John turns back to look at his sofa companions. He is tickled to see an errant curl of hair escaping its usual neatly coiffed confines. 'Never realised that Mikey has curly hair too underneath all that gunk’.

Without glancing up Mycroft interrupts with 'Please don't call me that. It's even more ridiculous than Mycroft. Besides, it makes you sound like my mother.'

Lestrade sends a positively evil grin back. 'Would you prefer Curly? Or how about Duracell?' He is favoured with the thinnest, frostiest, most insincere smile that John has ever seen gracing a face.

'Some things you have to change. No-one takes a young man with crazy red hair and a prematurely receding hairline entirely seriously.’ Sherlock chooses that moment to interject with ‘On a bad day after swimming lessons he was once described as an electrocuted Fraggle.' John and Lestrade laugh helplessly at the image and the glare of absolute disdain Mycroft turns on his brother.

Lestrade wipes tears from his eyes and pats Mycroft on the shoulder sympathetically ‘I hope you know I’ll never be able to take you completely seriously again after that.’

‘Greater men than you have made the same mistake, I assure you Detective Inspector.’ the civil servant retorts with a smile that would have frozen boiling water. On that chilly note, Mycroft stands and stalks off (remarkably evenly for a man who’s drunk a third of a bottle of whisky already) in the general direction of the bathroom.

Lestrade looks at John. ‘Fraggle!’ he whispers. The pair collapse against each other giggling, much to the amusement of the others. When Molly pesters them as to what’s so funny, all John can do is wave a hand while gasping for breath.

As Greg and John seek to recover themselves with the assistance of more liquid refreshment, Mary and Molly have been slowly making friends over a bottle of Merlot. Mary’s questionable history has been revealed during the gang’s planning sessions, but Molly has proved remarkably nonchalant about the matter. This surprises many people, but Mary remembers that this is a woman who has put up with Sherlock Holmes for years and cuts open corpses for a living. Molly may look meek and mousy, but she has a backbone of steel.

Molly is busy regaling Mary with the tale of shopping with not-Anthea (it’s become an in-joke – Molly knows her real name, but refuses to tell anyone else, although presumably her boss knows) when she bought the tulip dress she’s wearing tonight. Somehow she’s become firm friends with the woman, and in typical Molly fashion there’s a tale of minor disaster and clandestine activity among coffee shops and bijou little boutiques.

Mary’s chuckling is interrupted by a polite cough from above. She and Molly look up to see Mycroft (hair slicked back once again) with a faint blush colouring his cheekbones. ‘I felt I ought to apologise for embarrassing you earlier Doctor Hooper. It was… ungentlemanly of me.’ Molly accepts the apology gracefully, and smiles back readily. From behind his back, Mycroft produces the gold box he arrived with ‘And as a gesture of my remorse, I thought you ought to get first pick of these.’ Molly and Mary’s eyes light up. ‘Ohhh! Belgian chocolates!’ Molly exclaims as she literally snatches the box from the now amused Holmes senior and positively rips into the packaging in search of her first fix.

Mary smirks up at Mycroft. ‘Now that, Mr. Holmes, is a proper apology. A girl could get used to it’. Mycroft inclines his head gracefully, and fixes her with one of his professional almost-smiles but doesn’t respond further and returns to his seat. Mary watches in fascination as Molly contemplates the chocolates intensely, before picking out one herself at random. She pops it in her mouth and lets it melt onto her tongue dreamily. Damn good chocolate, as one would expect from someone so obviously appreciative of the finer things in life. She chuckles as Molly flutters between her choices.

‘Just take one of each, Mols. I’m sure he won’t mind.’ Mary grins, noting that Mycroft is carefully watching the process even though he appears to be making small talk with Mrs Hudson. ‘You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever seen both Mycroft and Sherlock apologise to.’

Molly snorts ‘Yes, Holmes wrangling is one of my lesser known talents’. Mary honestly can’t help the rather dirty chuckle as she sees Molly’s brain catch up. ‘No! Not like that! I didn’t mean it like that!’ Molly glances between Sherlock and Mycroft, before stuffing a cherry liqueur in her mouth in hopes of not embarrassing herself any further.

Mary notices that Sherlock watched the entire scene with a peculiar expression on his face. She pretends not to notice, but files away the information for future reference along with Molly’s over-reaction. She’s not quite sure what to make of the dynamic, and nor is Holmes junior by the looks of things.

Once the interval is over, it’s up to the Swedes to rouse enthusiasm. Sherlock complains loudly that Swedish and Danish are essentially the same the language when Mycroft objects to his pronunciation. The Swedish entry is boringly normal and gets the general thumbs down regarding entertainment value, although it’s a pleasant enough ballad.

It takes the French entry to restore the ridiculous party mood. ‘Is he really singing about moustaches?’ queries Mrs Hudson while giggling. Lestrade opines that he looks like Jedward’s even less cool brother, which raises more sniggers from everyone except Mary and the Holmeses. TWIN TWIN finish with a general round of applause for daring to perform that song in public.

Russia’s pseudo-siamese twins with their conjoined hair and see-saw get given marks for originality. Patsy speaks up for the first time wondering why they’re wearing dressing gowns, which gets her a small round of applause for getting into the spirit of things. Sherlock declares the song to be boring and continues to complain loudly throughout the Italian entry, who is dubbed by Mycroft the ‘Roman goddess of Bad Taste’. With her jewel encrusted white mini-dress and stilettos, the comparison is a fair one. Lestrade agrees with the remark, but adds that at least she has great legs. This earns him a disgusted glare from the Molly and Mary corner. Lestrade passes the box of chocolates back over to them in contrition, with a suitably self-deprecating grin.

Slovenia is greeted with derision for terrible miming of flute playing, but the song is actually pretty good. Sherlock and Mycroft have an argument about the pronunciation of the Slovene for cheers, which ends up like a pair of five-year-olds squabbling and is eventually settled by Billy via Google. Both brothers subside into an alcohol fuelled sulk, while John and Lestrade take great amusement in their shared expression of disgruntlement.

Finland appear to have sent a normal pop group over, which gets them ignored in favour of refilling of drinks and plates. Mycroft takes control of the chocolate box and commences working his way through the selection card with determination. Sherlock sneers ‘Careful. You might not make it off the sofa if you keep that up.’ Mrs Hudson’s reproving cry of ‘Sherlock!’ is undermined by Mycroft making a childishly rude gesture by thumbing his nose in his brother’s direction (as he’s too busy with a raspberry ganache to actually say anything). Sherlock’s inevitable rude response is to stick his tongue out back at him.

The others boggle at the utterly juvenile display and Lestrade responds in his best paternal tones ‘Don’t make me have to separate you two!’The pair subside into matching sulks, which Mary finds both amusing and faintly adorable, which is not a word she would have associated with either brother before tonight.

The apparently damp Spanish lady attracts attention for a while, with her power ballad about dancing in the rain. She’s actually a pretty good singer, so people listen to her but as she drops the final note Sherlock breaks the silence with a whiny ‘Are we there yet, Dad?’ There’s a general round of laughter, and John makes liberal use of the cushion as a weapon again. Sherlock’s unrepentant grin makes John laugh back and the atmosphere thaws a little more.

The whistling Swiss entry and his folksy backing band complete with banjo is more in the Eurovision spirit. Mrs Hudson says that he looks like David Essex; Lestrade, John and Mycroft agree. Molly shrugs up at Mary ‘Before my time, I think.’

The Hungarian entry seems pretty standard until the female pianist seems to be being chased about the stage by a mysterious man in black. Lestrade speaks up with ‘The lyrics to this are well dodgy. It’s all about child abuse’. Everyone watches in vague discomfort and all are grateful when the song is over. ‘That was bleak even for Eastern Europe’ he announces with a shudder.

Thankfully Graham Norton is there to restore humour and the Maltese entry is harmless enough; looking and sounding like an American folk song, apart from the traditional stringed instrument being played by the lead singer, which no-one can identify.

The Danish offering is derided roundly for its peppiness, and the interesting hairstyles of the backing singers come in for almost equal mockery. Sherlock opines that the female singer appears to share Sally Donovan’s stylist, which gets him a mildly uncomfortable silence and a muttered ‘Not good, mate’ from John. Mycroft recovers the mood by noting that ‘Cliché Love Song’ is more of a description than an actual title, and pouring Sherlock more whisky.

The Dutch contestants seem to have got lost between the dressing room and stage, but after some desperate flannelling from the hostess they finally appear. Mary voices aloud what more than one person is thinking ‘Why is there a country and western band in the Eurovision?’. Mycroft agrees, ‘It sounds like it belongs on the first album of one of the more modern exponents of the genre. Nul points for originality.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with the brand and advertising, in the 70s and 80s 'Duracell' batteries were sold in the UK with the tagline 'with the coppered coloured top'. Consequently, every ginger kid in that generation was called 'Duracell'.


	4. Oooh baby, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babies have superpowers to know exactly how to cause trouble while being adorable.
> 
> Alcohol loosens lips and the Holmeses are slightly soppy drunks.

There’s a brief interlude as the familiar wail of a baby comes from Sherlock’s bedroom, where Baby Watson has been put down in her temporary crib. As the nearest parent, John goes to retrieve her while Mary and Mrs Hudson set about warming a bottle. Luckily the San Marino entry is a quietish ballad that sounds like it should be from the 1970s; indeed the lady singer seems to be wearing a dress from that decade.

John takes the bottle from Mary and starts to feed his daughter as the TV plays in the background, sound turned low. After only a couple of minutes Angie begins to fuss and promptly pukes up milky froth over her father. John grimaces in disgust, and hands her over to Sherlock while he goes to clean up. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in horror and holds the baby at arms length like she’s a bomb about to explode, which of course only causes the baby to become properly distressed.

Mycroft rolls his eyes at his brother ‘Honestly, Sherlock. Anyone would think you’d never held a baby before.’ The elder Holmes lifts Angie to his lap, snags the towel that Mary holds out as she’s finally reached the disaster scene. He deftly folds it over his right shoulder one-handedly before settling the baby there, rubbing her back till she belches up more milky vomit. Discarding the now filthy cloth, he leans back into the sofa settling the baby with him as Sherlock wordlessly puts the bottle in his outstretched hand. John returns to find Angie suckling her bottle, propped up in the crook of Mycroft’s left arm, his hand supporting the bottle, with the now omnipresent whisky glass safely out of reach in his right hand. ‘How in the hell did you manage that?’  John blurts out.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifts in a small smile as he and Angie watch each other in apparent rapt fascination. ‘Trying to do homework with a fussy baby brother was good practice’ is all he says.

Angie nurses all the way through the final entry, which of course is England. Molly Hooper has already come in for a fair amount of ribbing asking about her Eurovision performance and the gang continue the jest. True to classic Eurovision, ‘Molly’ is wearing an odd fur and gold lame outfit as she sings a power ballad straight out of the 1980s as her drummer waves his arms around theatrically. Lestrade buries his face in his hands 'I don’t know why we bother' he announces. The song is, quite frankly, ridiculous and the chinese lantern imagery of the stage lighting just adds to cringe factor. John leans back, waving his bottle of beer at the telly 'Yeah, we may as well go home now'.

Sherlock disagrees 'I dunno, I quite like it'. Everyone turns to stare at the detective, who looks faintly startled by their expressions. 'She sounds a lot like that CD you used to play all the time that summer, Myc. You remember, that Total Eclipse of the Heart woman, Benny something-or-other'.

Every eye in the room swivels smoothly to the other Holmes, who now looks like he’s trying to sink into the sofa, baby and all. 'Bonny Tyler,' blurts Lestrade, a grin lighting up his face. He guffaws 'You used to own a Bonny Tyler CD. Not only owned it, but played it to death'.

'It had Meatloaf on it too', the civil servant mumbles, eyes firmly fixed on the baby although his cheeks are pinking with embarrassment. John makes a choking sound in an effort to cover up his chortling, Mrs Hudson sniggers into her hanky, and Molly is frantically stuffing her fist in her mouth trying not to laugh at the image and the normally prim man’s discomfiture.

Mycroft escapes when Angie finally pushes the bottle away and he gently but firmly places the now placid baby on his brother’s knees. You can almost hear a chorus of sentimental ‘Awws’ that no-one quite dares voice at the scene, especially when Angie grabs the British Government’s index finger before he can retreat and commences gumming enthusiastically. Sherlock’s initial embarrassment turns to an affectionate smile, but is quickly overtaken by horror when the baby pulls a face and a distinctive aroma arises. Mycroft’s smirk widens, John and Lestrade are amused mightily by their friend’s panicked expression and Mrs Hudson can only sigh at his reaction. Little Angela is unfazed as Mary rescues Sherlock with a grin, whisking her away to be changed and powdered.

Sherlock scowls like thunder at his brother, as he inspects his trousers for any leakage. ‘You did that on purpose. You knew that was going to happen.’

Mycroft’s smug grin is back in place. ‘Balance of probabilities, little brother.’ His smile turns positively shark-like again ‘Besides you deserved it for the Bonnie Tyler crack. Or do I need to bring up the Captain Beaky episode?’.

Sherlock has the grace to look bashful himself. ‘Ah, no. Maybe not. Mutually Assured Destruction holds again for childhood stories.’ He mimes zipping his lips and flops back into the sofa. After a few seconds he slumps against Mycroft’s shoulder, turns his head and stage-whispers in his brother’s ear ‘Grandma’.

Mycroft snorts the sip of Macallan he’s just taken out his nose and the two have a giggling fit that leaves everyone else staring as he mops up the damage with a silk handkerchief ‘No, no. I am NEVER sharing that with ANYONE’ Mycroft finally wheezes.

‘You’ll be lucky. Dad still has at least two of those Christmases on VHS. I’ve never managed to find where he keeps the last tapes though,’ Sherlock frowns.

‘I know,’ his brother smirks back. ‘Why do you think the VCR wasn’t working last Christmas?’

‘You crafty sod! Mummy believed you when you said you’d tried to fix it. You even offered to get your minions to look at it!’ On Christmas morning, Sherlock had found Mycroft surrounded by the guts of said device on the coffee table in the sitting room, fiddling with screwdriver and a soldering iron. It had been like a trip back to their childhood, with less yelling from Mummy about a household appliance having been eviscerated without permission.

‘Ensuring it was permanently disabled.’ Mycroft pats his brother’s knee comfortingly. ‘Sadly, I don’t control eBay or the video-to-DVD transfer market, so it’s an ongoing project’.

‘Anyway.’ he continues. ‘Enough of the past. It’s time to predict the future.’. Sherlock seizes the remote control and switches the inane post-show interviews to silent while Mycroft dials a number on his mobile, sets it down on the coffee table in front of himself and switches it to speakerphone. He opens the call in his most plummy Home Service voice with ‘London calling. Who do we have on line so far?’

A cultured US accent responds ‘Mycroft! It’s good to hear your voice again. Are you ready to astound us again with your predictions.’

Mycroft positively drawls back ‘You’re too kind, John. As ever I can only offer my humble interpretation of events’.

The American on the other end chuckles good naturedly. Sherlock presses the Mute key and announces ‘John Negroponte, former US Ambassador to the UN and then Iraq. More recently Director of Intelligence and Deputy Secretary of State’.

Most of the room by this time has crowded round the coffee table. Sherlock grins at the expressions of surprise and shock on most people’s faces and adds ‘Well, it needs a neutral arbiter - and you’re not going to get that from any European tonight’.

Mr Ambassador-cum-Secretary is continuing ‘Seriously, I don’t know why I let you rope me into this madness again. I’ve been watching the coverage, and all it does is confirm that you guys are weird. I have to declare a minor conflict of interest in waving the flag for Greece.’

He is interrupted by a woman whose rich alto voice is tinged with a Germanic accent “I am sure that you will be as impartial as ever, John’.

The new voice is also greeted by Mycroft.‘Frau Enzenberg, welcome to our little conclave’.

‘Mycroft, darling. You do know how much I look forward to our little games’ she adds, humour tinging her voice.

‘I do hope that you have placed my order at the Hotel Sacher already. I am so looking forward to the sweet taste of success’.

There’s what can only be described as a ladylike snort over the speakers. “Au contraire, Mr Holmes. I am looking forward to my spa day. I will need to burn off the calories from that cake after all.’

A third voice cuts in drily, his strong Russian accent making him sound like a stereotypical Bond villain. ‘Much as your flirting is entertaining, we do have a time limit lady and gentlemen. All predictions must be on the table before the first votes are cast. As usual, name the top five, person with the most in the actual top five wins. If there is a tie the closest to the actual placing wins’

Frau Enzenberg replies “You are correct of course, Grigory. Down to business.’ She continues, amusement still colouring her voice and adopts the attitude of an announcer ‘Very well, gentlemen. The predictions of the Austrian juror are as follows: First place, Ukraine, second, Netherlands, third Russia, fourth Austria, fifth Denmark’.

There’s the sound of a pen scratching, then the arbiter announces. ‘OK, got your list Birgit - Grigory, you’re next up’.

Sherlock whispers ‘Grigory Sumkin, one of the Russian Ambassadors to the EU’, even though the conference phone is still muted.

‘Thank you John. From first to fifth -  Sweden, Russia, Spain, Hungary, Denmark’. He pauses heavily between each statement.’

‘Right, Mycroft. Your turn.’

Every eye in the room swivels to Mycroft. He’s perched on the edge of the sofa, eyes closed, whisky glass pressed to his forehead and a look of utter concentration on his face. The atmosphere is so tense that John finds himself stifling the urge to giggle.

After what seems like an eternity, the elder Holmes leans forward, switches off the mute and pronounces. ‘Austria. Sweden. Netherlands. Hungary. Ukraine.’

There’s the sound of the pen and of the American muttering under his breath as he repeats the order. Finally he announces ‘And that concludes the voting. We’ll reconvene after if there’s any dispute. Good luck, folks’. With that, Sherlock hangs up the call and everyone breathes again.

‘The bearded lady, really?’ Lestrade queries. ‘Isn’t that too much of a novelty act?’

Mycroft smiles enigmatically ‘Indeed. However, novelty acts do have form in Eurovision’.

Sherlock grimaces. ‘Don’t bother asking him for an explanation. He won’t tell his secrets.’ Mycroft has that slightly disturbing half smile on his face again as he relaxes back into the sofa, sipping his drink once more.

Sherlock gestures with his own glass. ‘I’ve been trying to get him to explain how he does it to me since I was about five. He still won’t tell, the smug git.’

Molly pipes up ‘So you’ve been doing this all your lives?’

Sherlock grimaces ‘Well, not with the party. Our grandmother was very much into European unity and never passed up an opportunity to expose us to ‘culture’. God only knows how she got it into her head that Eurovision counted as culture, but she’d pick us up every year and watch the show on TV with us. Mummy and Dad used to look forward to the night off, as Mummy didn’t agree with nannies. Mycroft never argued, because grandmere let him stuff his face with junk food that Mummy didn’t permit.’

Unlike normal, when allusions to his diet are made Mycroft doesn’t get huffy. Instead he still has a faint but now fond smile on his face and continues ‘I came up with the prediction game to keep Sherlock quiet… well, quieter through the evening. He was usually bouncing off the walls on a cocktail of sugar and adrenaline by now’. Sherlock flushes slightly.  ‘Even after she could no longer look after us and I had to babysit, we kept watching. We used to try and predict each country’s votes. He gave up trying to outguess me when he hit puberty, so I started playing against other people instead. That and the prize being more than not being kicked by a hyperactive child’.

John can’t help but imagine the Holmes parents’ cosy sitting room in darkness with a chubby ginger teenager sitting on a sofa, arm pinning a small black haired boy to his side as they whisper to each other, bathed in the flicker of a cathode ray tube. The thought is oddly reassuring that at least at one time Sherlock and Mycroft had an almost normal brotherly relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Beaky ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrq6av5-PS8 ) - a popular UK children's novelty song/ comic poem with music released in early 1980 telling the adventures of Captain Beaky and his heroic band and their archenemy Hissing Sid. Sherlock was given it for his fourth birthday by Mycroft. He learned all the lyrics and sang it ad nauseam.
> 
> 'There's No-one Quite Like Grandma' aka 'Grandma we love you' ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9r1cFJZW7E ) a cutesy Christmas hit from that era by a sickeningly sweet primary school choir. Like my own Grandma (and many other grandmothers of that era), Grandmere (supported by Mummy) Holmes insisted that her grandsons sang her the song every Christmas before giving them their Christmas presents. Daddy Holmes of course had an early video camera and captured the event on tape, much to his children's chagrin.
> 
> Thankfully there's no extant video footage of my own ordeal, which only ended with my grandmother's death when I was 18...


	5. The Final Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the scores on the doors are...

When the voting commences, everybody clusters together to watch the denouement. Mary squeezes onto the sofa next to John, with Patsy perched on the arm next to her and everyone gets squished up. Lestrade leans up against the other end of the sofa, and as Molly walks over trying to decide where to sit, he tugs her down to the floor, with her back to the cushions and puts the remnants of the box of chocolates on her lap.

With everyone rearranged, it’s time to watch the votes roll in.

The presenters opens with a cheerful ‘Good evening Azerbaijan!’ and exchanges inanities with the statuesque blonde presenter smiling in near airbrushed perfection from Baku. Mercifully not all the votes are read out any more, only the top 3 - which in this case go to Hungary, Ukraine and Russia, the latter to a chorus of booing from the audience

Sherlock groans theatrically. ‘Block voting behind the old iron curtain again!’.

Mycroft shrugs. ‘Same as it ever has been. You should know that by now that this is driven by a mixture of partisanship, historical grudges, nationalistic feuding, prejudice and nepotism, not the inherent artistic merit of the performances.’

They younger Holmes brother shrugs ‘That’s why you always get closer to reality than I do. You know the politics, I know music’.

‘Touche, Sherlock.’ and the pair touch glasses again.

The blonde model from Azerbaijan is replaced by another blonde model, this time from Greece, who announces Netherlands, Russia and Austria. Once more the Russian vote is greeted with disdain.

When the third blonde, this time from Poland appears on the screen, Mary groans. ‘Do they clone life-size barbie dolls in a tank somewhere and distribute them to TV networks?’ she grumbles. Molly giggles into the fresh glass of wine that Sherlock had pushed into her hand as she sat somewhere in the region of his knees.

At least the Polish announcer gets straight to the point and the nation’s points are awarded and the scoreboard starts to move. Albania obviously hasn’t been given access to the cloning tank as their representative is a young man in a baseball cap. He launches into a pre-prepared spiel, and that’s the point Sherlock breaks.

‘I refuse to listen to any more of this ridiculous pontification’ he declares, switching the sound off. There’s a half-hearted chorus of complaint, but no-one really wants to listen to the juries. Sherlock stands, unsteadily enough that John gives him a balancing hand with a broad grin which he completely fails to acknowledge.

Taking out his violin, he tunes it for a second then starts to play something which John doesn’t recognise from Sherlock’s usual repertoire, but seems familiar. It’s not till he hears an undignified snort from his right and turns to see Mycroft, eyes closed, head tilted back with shoulders shaking as he tries not to giggle. Molly, startled by the British Government losing it next to her is the next to cotton on ‘Waterloo, Sherlock? I never knew you were a closet Abba fan?’ she quips.

Lestrade guffaws as it dawns.

‘I warned you, he’s watched all the Eurovisons for nearly forty years’ Mycroft manages to force out between chuckles.

Sherlock turns away to hide his smile and launches into a variation of ‘Congratulations’, by Sir Cliff Richard. When he reaches the chorus, Mrs Hudson launches into the half-remembered lyrics which is picked up first by Lestrade and then John and Molly.

The result is more enthusiastic than tuneful, but Sherlock then launches into a medley of past Eurovision hits, from Lulu to Gina G via Bucks Fizz, Bobbysocks and the Brotherhood of Man (Save Your Kisses For Me gets an enthusiastic rendering from all the Brits over a certain age). He wrings a wry salute from Mycroft when he dedicates ‘Puppet on a String’ to his big brother. Even that dig is not enough to drag Mycroft from his mellow cloud of inebriation as he watches the scores roll in on the projector and the league table begins to stabilise.

The UK was rescued from complete ignominy with 5 points from Denmark quite early in the scoring, but it’s clear they’re not going to trouble the leaders any time soon. As the scoring reaches the half-way point the leaderboard shows all three competitors still in with a shout of winning the coveted prizes, but Mycroft for once is justified in his ubiquitous smug aura, as Conchita Wurst of Austria is beginning to pull ahead of the main pack.

As the scoring drags on interminably, the party doesn’t manage to lose momentum much to John’s surprise. With the lubrication of alcohol, everyone seems to be able to maintain a jovial mood. Molly is leaning on the sofa seat, chatting animatedly with Mycroft and Lestrade about something, waving her wineglass around to emphasise her point. Greg is grinning back, while Mycroft himself is smiling indulgently at Molly, even as she comes perilously close to dumping her red wine directly in his lap. John catches Mary also staring at the tableau and agrees silently with her raised eyebrow as he squeezes her hand.

Mrs Hudson is regaling Billy and Patsy with some wild tales of her youth as a nightclub dancer, misty-eyed over a gin and tonic as the girl stares wide-eyed and giggling while Billy blushes madly. Sherlock appears lost in his own little world as he paces in front of the windows of Baker Street, still playing his violin although he’s returned to a more conventional plaintive classical piece that John is familiar with.

John is a little disturbed that Sherlock seems to have withdrawn into himself again, but the man seems lost in his music and John is loathe to break that spell, especially when he’s not sure why he feels disturbed. He’d been concerned that the detective’s playing would disturb the baby, but furtive checks on Angie have shown that she is indeed sleeping like the proverbial log.

Eventually, after nearly an hour of ‘Hello Copenhagen! And here is the voting from...’ there’s finally a change on screen and Molly fumbles with the remote to turn the volume back up. The presenters are enthusing ‘...and it’s no longer possible for any other country to catch up. We are ready to announce the winner. The winner is Austria!’

The cheers from the TV are matched by the cheers in the room. Mycroft grins ridiculously wide, but still manages to look slightly bashful. Greg reaches up to clap him on the shoulder in congratulations, while Molly punches him playfully in the leg.

‘Oh, well done, Mycroft!’ trills Mrs Hudson, while John and Mary toast him with their drinks. Sherlock scowls and stalks back to take his place on the sofa back, jostling Molly in the process. ‘It’s not over yet! He could still lose if someone does better on the top 5.’

Lestrade interrupts jovially with ‘It’s over when the bearded lady sings, Sherlock.’, which raises a round of laughter.

The remaining 3 nations have little effect on the final table. The top five is confirmed as Austria, The Netherlands, Sweden, Armenia, Hungary.

Mycroft shrugs and affects an air of nonchalance. “Ah well, four out of five again. I still think that Aram MP3 is such a stupid name it deserved to be downvoted.’

Molly giggles up at him ‘Very close. Ukraine came in sixth after all.’

Mycroft allows himself to gloat ‘Close, but no cigar. One year I’ll get it right’. He’s distracted by the buzzing of one of his phones. The rest of the room is treated to Mycroft’s (smug) half of the conversation as he positively oozes self-satisfaction.

‘Hello John.’

‘Why, thank you for your kind words.’

‘I’m sure the European people appreciate your congratulations.’

‘I am most certainly looking forward to Birgit’s forfeit, yes’.

‘Very well. I shall book you in for next year’s challenge, if you insist’.

‘Good morning to you, John’.

He hangs up the call, but almost instantly there’s the buzz of an incoming text. He opens the message and huffs a laugh, handing the phone down to Molly ‘From Frau Enzenburg’.

There’s no text. Only an image of a large gold-and-white cake box with ‘Property of M. Holmes’ scrawled across it in red marker. Molly giggles at the picture, then hands the phone on to Lestrade when Mycroft waves it away. The picture is handed round for the amusement of all, but when Sherlock, eyes alight with mischief, reaches to take it from John, Mycroft intercepts promptly. ‘No, Sherlock. You’re not having access to MY phone. Ever’.

Sherlock’s pout reaches epic proportions.

The party gradually winds down after the British Government's victory. Mycroft himself is the first to go, dozing off in his corner of the large sofa despite the general ruckus around him, sleeping the sleep of the victorious and inebriated, if not the virtuous.

Billy and Patsy retire to John’s old room. Mrs Hudson gives up next and offers Inspector Lestrade her couch, since Molly is now also fast asleep curled up tightly in Sherlock’s black chair. The detective, who is definitely looking the worse for wear is grateful for the sleeping spot.

Sherlock is adamant that John and Mary take his room with the baby, although he retrieves a bundle of clothes from the room first.

When John protests, Sherlock snorts at him. 'I won't actually sleep, John. I have to catch up on yesterday's news cuttings and then check on the cultures under the sink...'

Laughing, John raises his hands in placation. 'Of course you won't sleep. Sleep is for mere mortals. I get it.'

More softly he adds 'Thank you, Sherlock. It's been surprisingly entertaining'.'

The detective looks at him almost plaintively. 'It was good, John?' he queries, looking more than a little unsure and vulnerable.

'Yes, it was very good' John smiles and squeezes his arm affectionately before following Mary to the bedroom.

As John returns to gather the last of the baby necessities from the lounge, he hides a smile when Sherlock covers Molly’s sleeping form with his Belstaff making her snort in her sleep and snuggle up more tightly.


	6. The morning after the night before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With apologies, I forgot I never finished this. Enjoy the fluff.

Ever an early riser, John is the first adult to stir Sunday morning.

He gathers the baby from her travel cot, changes her quietly out of respect for the duvet wrapped lump that is his still sleeping wife. Angie burbles at him merrily, but puts up with being manhandled as John dresses quickly and heads out in search of tea and painkillers.

He stops as he enters the sitting room and wishes for a moment that he’d brought his cameraphone with him. On second thoughts, it’s probably more than his life’s worth to commit the scene that greets him to any kind of medium and so he settles for observing quietly as he switches on the kettle.

Molly is still fast asleep in Sherlock’s chair, with only the tuft of her ponytail visible from beneath the coat.

Mycroft, still wearing most of his bespoke suit, is fast asleep on the sofa; although somehow he’s shifted position so that he’s laid on his back along its full length. He’s snoring fairly loudly, which although highly amusing is not the funniest thing about the scenario.

The man who allegedly embodies the British Government is sleeping with his broad frame half-off the sofa. His head is balanced precariously on the very end of the arm, with his shoulder hanging off the edge of the cushions. His left arm and hand trail on the floor next to the nearly-empty whisky bottle.

The reason his position is so precarious is that Sherlock ‘I need no sleep’ Holmes himself has managed to wedge himself into the small gap between Mycroft and the back of the sofa. Sherlock has sometime in the night changed into his preferred pyjama bottoms and t-shirt ensemble and wrapped himself in his favourite silk dressing gown. He’s tucked his head under his brother’s chin and slung an arm across his chest. John suspects that this grip is the main reason the older man hasn’t actually fallen off the edge as his brother wormed his way into the space. Mycroft in return has wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s back. To top it all off, someone has found the truly hideous crocheted multicolour patchwork throw that was a gift from a grateful client and draped it over the pair.

Their position is utterly ridiculous and absolutely endearing. Both men are completely dead to the world. John knows from experience that Sherlock rarely sleeps so deeply. John is less surprised than he feels he should be that the detective is secure enough like this to get several hours of proper kip, but Sherlock sleeping through the snoring in his ear is truly remarkable. Although the idea of the older Holmes being willing to put up with being used as a cuddly toy seems odd at first, John is forced to concede that Mycroft has put up with more ridiculous demands from his little brother than this.

Fortified with two aspirin and an Alka-Seltzer, John makes a pot of tea. Lestrade turns up next, looking rumpled and tired and rubbing his neck but his eyes sparkle with mirth when he sees the scene. Unlike John, he has no qualms about snagging a photo, but astonishingly the fake click-and-whir of his new smartphone’s camera is enough to wake the snoozing pair.

Sherlock sits bolt upright with an alarmed expression on his face, while Mycroft somehow manages to recover falling off the sofa into a surprisingly smooth roll into a defensive crouch.  The overall effect of catlike grace is  ruined by the clatter of glasses tumbling off the banged coffee table and the fact that Mycroft groans as he levers himself back off the floor into a sitting position on the couch. There’s laughter from Lestrade and Molly, who was awoken by the crash of thirteen or so stone of Holmes hitting the table en route to the floor.

John grins as he holds out a cup of over-sugared tea and the blister pack of pankillers to the elder brother, who accepts gratefully. Mycroft’s normally impeccable hair is sticking up in all directions and he has reddish stubble darkening his jawline, but other than squinting in the daylight as he daintily sips his tea he looks remarkably well for a man who drank whisky for five hours straight the night before.

Sherlock on the other hand looks paler than usual, but his expression is positively mulish at John’s betrayal in giving Mycroft the first cup of tea. He takes the cup proffered to him, downs two aspirin and takes a big swig of his tea. Nobody is entirely surprised when a few seconds later he bolts for the bathroom, banging the door closed behind him. Lestrade catcalls about him being a lightweight, while Mycroft huffs a laugh into his own tea and Molly tries and fails to hold back giggles.

The commotion brings a sleepy-looking Mary to the door, baby in her arms . John, filled with warmth at the surprisingly domestic scene hugs his wife and child, leaving Mary slightly confused but happier than she has been for a long time.

* * *

 

Sherlock resurfaces a while later freshly showered and scrubbed looking more human than he did before. He’s just in time to catch his brother leaving, having restored himself to near respectability. Despite wearing yesterday’s slightly crumpled suit, Mycroft has once more donned his armor and authoritarian aura. The two brothers look at each other stiffly for a moment, but in the end Sherlock simply hands his brother his umbrella before stepping aside to let him reach the door. Mycroft pauses at the threshold and gives his little brother a tight smile “Same time next year?’. Sherlock responds with his own smirk “Next time I beat you, Blud”.

Mycroft taps Sherlock on the chest with the crook of his umbrella and sneers back, but with humour in his eyes. “You can try, little brother. You can try.” then turns on his heel and saunters down the stairs. Sherlock’s response is to snort and childishly thumb his nose at his brother’s retreating back before returning to his friends’ good humour and the smell of bacon butties for breakfast filling his home.


End file.
